The Poets have Gone Out
The Poets have gone to the hills
Free from domestic nuisance and noise
They can speak of deeper, manly things:
Literature, philosophy, their own most recent work.
Later, in letters they will reflect on
Each other’s excellent, worthwhile thoughts.
Later again, academics will delve,
Ponder these exchanges, write papers on
The insights, teach students, build careers.
All the while, the wives of The Poets
Feed mouths, clean, mend, sew and tend.
Darn the socks of Poets
Make the breakfast of Poets
Raise the offspring of Poets
No record remaining of what they say
Once The Poets have gone out for the day.
(I was thinking very much about Victorian and early twentieth century writers when I wrote this. And a line from T.S. Eliot’s literary criticism that haunts me about how poetry should be dry, hard and manly, and Robert Graves’ obsession with the idea that men are poets and women are to embody the Goddess and be muses, and an array of other such annoyances in that vein.)